


Berry

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Female Thorin Oakenshield, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4886632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo wants something very un-hobbit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Berry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Apparently, plump and domestic were not the qualities that turns Bilbo's head, hence why he was a bachelor for so long. It is only now that he realizes it is commanding and aggressive sword maidens that can break him in half that make his heart beat faster. Now, to figure out how to adapt Shire courting rituals to romance such a fierce queen. note: please don't imply that one form of femininity is better than the other. It's just for this prompt, Bilbo is aroused by being dominated by lady warrior types. I just really want a fem!Thorin/Bilbo fic, which is practically a unicorn in the wild” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8973.html?thread=19136781#t19136781).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s already nervous, but the inadequacy of his tools makes it far worse; the knife in his hands, even dulled for butter, may as well be a sword to him. Everything’s oversized. And he has little hobbit hands, and he imagines dwarves have regular-sized stomachs, so he does his best to adapt Beorn’s kitchen. He appreciates the permission to use it, even if it’s awkward. He’ll probably never get a better chance along this journey. 

Of course, that might be for the best. He might be balancing on his tip-toes on a stool, half draped over the too-high counter and carefully sticking syrup-dipped berries atop the single-serve pie for no good reason. It’s the sort of thing that would certainly win over any sweetheart of the Shire—that and flowers, which certainly won’t work here—but he’s not courting a hobbit. He’s never been particularly drawn to the plump domestic types—those like himself. And now he knows why. 

Apparently it’s the commanding, aggressive sword maidens that make his heart race. He doesn’t seem to mind a beard if it comes with a bit of muscle, and he’s finding his body’s reactions downright shameful to being ordered about. And he has no idea how to attract that sort of woman, but he’ll have to try with food, because that’s all he knows, and at least dwarves don’t seem to mind eating him out of house and home. At least this time, it’s Beorn’s supplies. 

He’s just finished arranging the strawberry slices around the top when someone demands, “Bilbo!” and he squeals so hard in surprise he nearly jumps backwards. It makes him lose his already precarious footing, and the three-legged stool wobbles beneath him, while he clutches onto his pie for dear life. He doesn’t quite get the right grasp, and the stool betrays him, and he goes toppling backwards with the pie shooting off the counter. 

He lands back in thick, strong arms, with his hands in just the right place to catch the pie. A single strawberry slice doesn’t make it through the trauma and slides slickly down the side, but the rest is fine. 

Bilbo’s red to the tips of his ears. He looks up at Thorin, who frowns right back down at him, one meaty arm under Bilbo’s knees and the other around his back, hefting him up like it’s nothing. The fact that she can handle his weight with such ease only makes it worse, because his guilty imagination does too many lewd things with that information. He was always told his imagination was over-active for a hobbit. He was doing a decent job of stamping it down before this gorgeous queen-in-the-making first walked through his door. 

Showing no strain from holding him whatsoever, Thorin grunts, “What’re you baking for? We’ve got a prime opportunity here to work on your fighting skills. You should be out sparring.” Her gravelly voice makes him shiver, even—or especially—when she’s scolding him. 

Bilbo opens his mouth, but as usual, can’t think of the right way to say anything to make a dwarf listen, so he just lets his nose twitch and shuts his mouth again. Thorin shakes her head in obvious disapproval and tilts her arms, helping him down. He stumbles out, clumsy because his mind’s still elsewhere and he’d rather stay in Thorin’s arms. He’s just barely righted himself when she notes, “Smells good, though.”

Too numbly, Bilbo holds it out to her and offers, “You can have it.” He means to say he made it _for her_ , but as usual, she takes it before any of his flowery explanations can make it out.

She just barks, “Thanks,” takes it in one big fist, and shoves the whole side into her mouth. She takes a bite the size of three of Bilbo’s, and when she pulls it back, her beard’s full of pastry and apple crumbs. Bilbo’s knees feel weak. She’s turning to the door a second later and marching off, the sunlight streaming in to paint all her edges gold. 

She stops just in the threshold to turn and ask, “Well, burglar? Are you going to come learn how to swing that sword of yours or not?” Maybe she winks, or maybe his light head’s playing tricks on him. Either way, Bilbo hurries after.

When he reaches her side, she throws her free arm around his shoulders, the other still holding the pie to her mouth, and she gives him a quick squeeze on their first step out, chirping, “We’ll make a warrior out of you yet.”


End file.
